


Prince Charming

by morganoconner



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Episode Tag, Fairy Tales, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-30
Updated: 2012-07-30
Packaged: 2017-11-11 02:14:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/473330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morganoconner/pseuds/morganoconner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles may not be anyone's idea of a knight in shining armor, but he's got this saving the princess thing <i>down</i>.</p><p>…As long as no one tells Derek that he's the princess in this metaphor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prince Charming

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Miya_Morana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miya_Morana/gifts).



> A coda to episode 2.09. No spoilers for future episodes.
> 
> With many thanks to akadougal for beta-ing. <3

There’s no telling where Peter learned to harness the sort of magic he’s taught Lydia. Moon magic, _shifter_ magic, is supposed to be a lost art, a myth, but clearly that isn’t the case, and Derek feels like an idiot for ever believing it was in the first place.

An alpha is supposed to never be afraid, but Derek isn’t an alpha anymore (and let’s face it, was probably never much of one to start with), and he’s terrified. Whatever Peter did, it’s still draining him. He can feel himself growing weaker as his uncle gloats. He tries to shift, needing to at least _try_ to fight his way out of here, to warn the pack, but he can’t even call on the energy to change a single nail to a claw.

He thinks that’s the worst of it, but then Peter kneels down in front of him, tilting Derek’s face up with a finger under his chin, and Derek has only seconds to glare defiantly before he’s suddenly overwhelmed with roiling nausea. He yanks away from Peter’s touch, scrambles back just in time to turn his head and vomit.

Something black and viscous pours out of him in heaving waves of sick, and he knows what it is, but it should be impossible. How can something he was born with be turned against him, how could his wolf become an infection for his body to fight if it's all he's ever known?

“What did you do to me?” he growls, wiping his mouth as he tries to breathe through the stabbing pain in his intestines.

Peter smiles, cruel and gleaming in the moonlight. “Nothing you didn’t absolutely deserve,” he says. “Tell me, Derek, did you really think it would be so easy? Taking on the Hale legacy, re-building the pack. A noble idea, to be sure, but let’s face it. A bit beyond your abilities, don’t you think?”

“I think that I’m going to really enjoy killing you again.” Derek doesn’t dare close his eyes even as another wave of nausea passes through him, unwilling to take his eyes of the psychotic werewolf in front of him.

“That would be quite a trick,” Peter says, laughing like it’s a wonderful joke. “You won’t even be conscious soon, and after that…” He spreads his hands in a helpless gesture. “Well, nephew, I doubt it will matter for long after that.”

Derek realizes that Peter is getting stronger by the second, even as his own energy wanes. His uncle is already stealing his wolf from him, and he means to take everything else as well. And there’s not a damn thing Derek can do to stop him, already dizzy with pain and fatigue and nausea, darkness starting to edge into his vision.

“I wonder, Derek. You’ve alienated your pack, and I’ve cut your ties to them. Your family is dead. You’ve no friends to call your own.” Peter smiles again, his head tilted as he regards Derek. “Who will come for you? Who will care enough to save you before your life-force belongs to me?” He leans closer, close enough to whisper, close enough for Derek to smell the stink of his breath. “I think we both know the answer to that. Poor little Derek Hale. All alone, no one to even mourn his passing.”

Derek’s eyes are sliding shut against his will, but his gaze slides back to find Lydia, Peter’s puppet, his plaything, his _toy_ , staring at him with wide, guileless eyes. It’s the last thing he sees before he tumbles headlong into absolute darkness.

~

Isaac corners him in the locker room, after everyone else has already left, because that's just how werewolves seem to roll. Stiles wonders, not for the first time and probably not for the last either, how this has become his life.

"Where's Derek?" Isaac asks him, which, what?

"What?" Stiles replies. "What do you mean, _where's Derek_ , you're the one with the creepy alpha-beta bond thing going on, I'm just the lowly human he harasses occasionally when he's pissed off or dying or, I dunno, _bored_ , how the hell would I know where Derek is?"

Isaac scowls at him, but his eyes shift to the ground, and he looks…he looks _freaked_ , actually, which goes a long way to freaking Stiles out because in his experience, werewolf betas who think they're way more badass then they really are don't usually look that way. At least, not around him.

"Oh, holy God," Stiles says, connecting the dots. "You _lost_ your alpha?"

Isaac's jaw clenches, his eyes flashing too-bright, and okay, antagonizing freaked out werewolves – not a good idea. Check. "We haven't been able to sense him since last night," he finally admits. "He disappeared In the middle of…" He hesitates, then settles on saying, "the full moon. I thought he went to find Scott maybe, to help, but he didn't come back, and I was trying to…" Another pause. "…keep things calm. I couldn't track him, and by the time the moon was over, his scent was already gone somehow. So was the alpha bond."

This is quite possibly the most words Isaac's has ever bothered speaking to him all at once, and normally Stiles would be congratulating him, but his mind is kind of stuck on, _Derek's missing. He left his puppies on their own on a full moon. He would never, ever do that. Aw, crap._

Because one crisis in Beacon Hills is just not enough. Two if you count his dad getting fired, which Stiles absolutely does. "Do you have any clues? Anything at all?" he asks. Maybe this is related to the weirdness with Matt and kanima-Jackson. He doesn't know how, but it could be possible, right?

Isaac hesitates. "One, and it might not mean anything. But Erica picked up a scent a couple blocks away, and it was pretty fresh. Fresh enough that your girlfriend Lydia would've had to leave her own birthday bash to leave it."

Stiles groans. She _had_ left, and he and Scott never figured out why, and she wasn't in school today, and damn it, there is no such thing as coincidence in this town. But, okay. He can work with this. It's a starting place, at least.

What he needs to do now is find Scott, who's been alternating between panicking and moping all day since Allison hadn't been in school either.

"Okay," he tells Isaac. "I'm on it, okay? I'll try and find your missing alpha. But, look, I know you and your little pack of misfits. I know the first thing you're gonna do now is go out there and do something stupid and get yourselves in trouble, and can you please just _try_ not to do that, for once? Because, I mean, I've gotten pretty good at this whole "save the werewolves" thing, but I can only deal with so much at a time, you know? You feeling me here, dude?"

Isaac rolls his eyes. "Fine. We'll lie low for now and let you know if we hear anything."

"Or see. Or smell." Stiles pauses, eyeing Isaac suspiciously. "You're way too agreeable here. Something's up."

Isaac glares, but when Stiles doesn't even react (because let's face it, that glare has _nothing_ on Derek's evil looks), he relents. "Erica's not doing so hot after the moon. She could use the rest, and I don't want her alone right now."

"Oh." Stiles frowns. "She gonna be okay?"

"Yeah." Isaac watches him like he can't really believe Stiles is even asking. It kind of breaks Stiles' heart a little that he has that little faith in…well, everyone. Scott told Stiles about how surprised Isaac was at the rave, when Scott told him to be careful. "Yeah, she'll be fine. Just tired."

"All right. Well, take care of yourselves then. I'll…keep you updated? If I find anything. Or even if I don't. Or…yeah. Whatever. We'll figure it all out, okay?" Stiles does his best to look reassuring. He even starts to reach out to awkwardly pat Isaac on the shoulder before remembering that he actually likes his hand and would very much like to keep it.

"Yeah, okay," Isaac says with a little nod, stepping away and grabbing up his bag. Just before he leaves the locker room, he pauses, shoulders hunched. "Thanks," he mumbles, and then he's gone.

Stiles gapes after him for a long time before remembering that he's supposed to be a man on a mission now.

~

He finds Scott exactly where he thought he would: sitting in his bedroom moping. There's a different flavor to the mope now, though, which probably doesn't mean anything good.

"Need your help," Stiles said, smacking Scott's shoulder. "C'mon, up. I need that wolf nose of yours."

"You're looking for Derek?" Scott asks, looking up at Stiles with those stupid-huge puppy eyes.

"Yeah, how'd you know?" Stiles shakes his head. "Never mind. You're part of his pack now, you'd have felt it too." He stops, rewinds that in his brain a few times. "Why aren't you out there looking for him already?" Come to think of it… "Why weren't you freaking out all day?"

Scott stares at him blankly.

"Yo, earth to McCall, come in McCall!" Stiles whacks him again, this time on the back of his head. "Dude, your alpha is _missing_. Let's go!"

"I can't." Scott's gritting his teeth, hands clenched in his lap.

Stiles does a double-take. "I'm sorry, what was that? You _can't_? What do you mean, you can't?"

"Look, Derek killed Mrs. Argent, okay? Or…he bit her, and she killed herself, but either way she's dead, and the Argents want revenge." Scott throws his hands up. "What am I supposed to do, Stiles? _Allison_ wants revenge, she already told me not to get in her way. This is serious. They're looking for him now, that's why I knew he was missing."

Stiles' brow furrows. "Wait, but. The bond? The alpha bond thing? Isaac said it was gone."

"No…" Scott gives him another blank look. "I can still feel it. It feels a little…weird, but it's still there."

There's no reason for the sudden pit in Stiles' stomach. "All right, well. Fine, that's good, maybe it'll help us find him. Let's go already."

"I _can't_ , Stiles."

If Stiles could growl, he would definitely be growling right now. "What, because of Allison? Are you kidding me right now? Derek did that to save your _life_ , dude, you should be on bended knee _thanking_ him. I mean, yeah, way to go on the bite thing, but you didn't see him, man. He went crazy when he felt you were in trouble." Stiles is frankly shocked that Derek didn't kill Mrs. Argent all on his own, that he held back enough to only incapacitate her as fast as possible to save Scott's life. He's not about to let Scott blame Derek for the fact that the Argents are all psychos. Yeah, it sucks, but Derek was doing the best he could at the time. Stiles is the one who had to watch when he came out of the building with Scott's dead weight in his arms. Stiles is the one who saw what Derek went through that night.

"I just can't take sides on this one, Stiles." Scott looks miserable. Well, good. He should be miserable, if he's going to be this stupid _now_ of all times.

"You know what, dude? Whatever." Stiles shakes his head. "You don't deserve to be part of his pack, if this is the thanks he gets for taking care of you when you were in trouble."

It's harsh, way harsher than Stiles thinks he's ever been with Scott before, and Scott's wearing a wide-eyed look of deep betrayal that cuts him to the bone. But fine, if they're choosing sides here – or not, in Scott's case, which really just amounts to choosing the Argents by default because he's doing exactly what they want him to do anyway – then Stiles already made his choice. He made it the first time he ever had to sit in that sterile room and watch Derek writhing in agony while Stiles geared himself up to cut off Derek's arm to save his life, and he's made it at least a dozen times over since then, too.

"Call me if you change your mind," he says, and maybe slams the door a little bit harder behind him then he really needs to.

~

So, fine, he's on his own. That's cool, though, Stiles is getting used to playing white knight to Derek's princess-esque ways of nearly getting killed all the time. He's got his faithful Jeep gassed up and ready to go, and he's totally down with riding in to save the day again.

It's this sort of self-pep-talk that reminds Stiles why he's not actually anyone's idea of a white knight.

He tries Lydia's first. It's the best lead he has, but he's not too hopeful, and isn't surprised when he's told that she's not there. Her mother seems to think she's staying with a friend, studying for a big exam. Stiles wonders how many friends her mother thinks Lydia actually has these days.

It bothers Stiles, how he's not more concerned about Lydia missing, caught up in whatever the hell freakshow Beacon Hills has become the past couple months. He's worried, of course he is, he's _damn_ worried about her and the whole situation, but it's not the crazed desperation from when she was in a coma, or when she went missing from the hospital.

It makes him wonder how long he's been clinging to his long-standing crush on her, using it like a shield to block other things he pretends not to ever think about.

Things like how, when he told Scott he was in love with a nutjob, the sentence didn't feel like a lie, but trying to fit it to Lydia did. Things like who he might have been talking about, if it wasn't her.

Shaking off his thoughts by remembering that there are way more important things to worry about right now, he ponders his next move. Lydia may not be around, but Isaac's lead isn't useless. If she is caught up in this mess somehow, it stands to reason that wherever she is, Derek should be close by. So all Stiles has to do is find her.

Well, that's easy enough. If there's one thing you can depend on with a girl like Lydia, it's that she never goes anywhere – _anywhere_ – without her cell phone.

Stiles jerks the wheel, pulls off an amazing U-turn with minimal tire-squealing, and races toward Danny's house.

~

"So who are you looking for this time?" Danny asks with a sigh, booting up his computer.

Stiles hesitates. "My, uh, cousin, remember him? Miguel?" He stumbles over the name, drawing the "M" out for too long because he's only a little bit positive that's the name he used, and rushes to cover it with, "But I think he's with Lydia, so if you can't find him, then she works too."

Danny stops, spinning in his chair to face Stiles with a very bland expression. "First of all, Miguel? You're still going with that one, really? Even if I was stupid enough to believe that, you do know his name is going to pop up the second I look up the number."

"Uh." Stiles cringes, because he hadn't actually thought of that. "Okay, so it's _slightly_ possible I was maybe harboring a wanted felon the last time I asked for this particular favor. But to be fair, he was innocent! Which I knew. And also couldn't tell anyone."

Danny stares at him for a long moment. "You know what?" he finally says. "Never mind. I don't even want to know." He spins back to his computer, shaking his head and muttering to himself.

As Stiles expected, Derek's phone gets nothing, either turned off or dead or smashed to pieces with a blunt instrument for all he knows. Danny, to his credit, doesn't even twitch when his name pops up, just tells Stiles it's a dead end and starts the trace on Lydia's number instead.

"You're a prince among men, Danny," Stiles tells him earnestly.

He can practically _feel_ Danny's eye-roll, even if he can't see it looking at the back of Danny's head. "Uh huh. Just promise me this isn't some new weird excuse to stalk Lydia or something, okay? I don't feel like getting arrested for aiding and abetting."

Stiles thinks about his recent revelations about all the things he's still refusing to think about. "I think it's safe to say you've got nothing to worry about there," he tells Danny with a sigh.

Danny turns just enough to give him a side-eye. Then he smirks. "So that's how it is, huh?" He nods solemnly. "Well. I can't say I blame you."

It's entirely possible that whimpering sound comes from Stiles, but he's admitting nothing as he lowers his face to his hands and wonders, again, how this is his life.

~

The Hale house. That's where Danny's nifty map points him to, and Stiles has to swallow hard around the ball of…of something that he'll swear up, down and sideways is _not_ mind-numbing fear, thank you very much.

There's nothing there. There's no reason for Lydia – or Derek, even – to be there. Because none of them have been back since the night Peter—

Stiles is not thinking about that. He _refuses_ to think about that, please, holy God, he doesn't want to think about that night.

Except. Except…

He thinks about the alpha bond. And how Scott could feel it when Isaac couldn't. And how the only difference between Scott and the rest of the puppies is who bit them.

No. _No_.

"Can I use your computer?" he asks Danny. "For a second? Um. Without telling you why and with your solemn promise to not find a way to track down my history after I delete it from your browser?"

Maybe it's something in his voice. Maybe it's the look in his eyes. Stiles doesn't have any idea what he looks or sounds like right now, but he can guess it probably isn't good, a guess that would be confirmed by the way Danny looks at him for a long moment before getting up and leaving the room without a word.

Stiles sits down. He goes to Google.

He types in ' _werewolf resurrection_ '.

He clicks 'Search'.

~

It's full dark by the time Stiles pulls up to the old Hale house, because he had to dig a lot deeper than he usually does to find anything plausible-sounding during his research. Even the stuff he _had_ found sounded completely ridiculous, but there's some instinct that keeps telling him he was on the right track.

He wishes to God that weren't the case.

His heart is fluttering wildly in his chest and he can't seem to catch a full breath, but he's not scared. Nope, not scared at all. If he looks a little too pale, well, that's just the way the moon is shining too brightly, and if his mouth is sandpaper-dry, it's only because he hasn't had anything to eat or drink since lunch.

His legs feel sort of jelly-like when he climbs out of the Jeep, and for a second he thinks his knees are going to buckle, but he stays standing, probably by some kind of divine intervention.

There's perfect silence all around him, which is eerie enough on its own, and given what he found during his spontaneous bout of research, it's even worse.

If he's right…

If he's right, then Derek and Lydia aren't the only people waiting in that house. And by now, his presence will definitely have been detected. Even Scott, as adorably clueless as he always is, wouldn't be able to miss it, with the way Stiles' heart is trying to pound its way out of his chest.

He should have called Isaac before coming here. Isaac and his pack-siblings who are a lot faster and a lot stronger and who have a lot sharper teeth than Stiles. But he can't risk them getting hurt or killed, and without their alpha, they're a lot weaker than they probably realize right now. It would be a disaster waiting to happen.

He _did_ contact Scott, but that was to text him a completely fabricated story about Derek being in the city, and how he's going after him tomorrow. It's not that Stiles doesn't trust Scott, but he knows his best friend well enough to know that the first person he'll call is Allison. Even if he doesn't mean to give her the information, even if the two of them are fighting, he'll tell her to be careful. And he'll let something slip that she, smart as she is, will pick up on. If Stiles is very, very lucky, it means the Argents won't be looking _here_ for their prey before Stiles has a chance to save his werewolf ass _again_.

Okay. Stiles can do this. He is a leaf on the wind.

He's not even breathing by the time he grips the doorknob – so tightly his knuckles turn white – and pushes his way inside. It takes a long minute for his eyes to adjust to the dimness inside, and by the time they do, there's already a long shadow unfolding from the middle of the stairway, two red eyes gleaming in the darkness.

Peter Hale comes down the stairs smiling, hand trailing the splintered banister like it's the grand staircase of Buckingham Palace and he's royalty. "Well well," he murmurs, with that oily sort of good-naturedness only he can pull off. "If it isn't the little Stiles that could." He spreads his hands wide, welcoming. "I must admit, I didn't think my nephew had it in him to inspire such loyalty."

Stiles stays utterly silent, possibly for the first time in his entire life. His hands are clenched into fists at his side as he tries to remember to breathe, because passing out right now would really not go a long way toward saving anyone.

"Wolf got your tongue?" Peter asks. He smiles, revealing his fangs. "Tell me Stiles, have you had enough time to think it over, reconsider my gift? The offer is still open. You have a strong will; I think you would even survive."

 _The bite_ , Stiles realizes. _He's talking about the bite_. He latches onto the idea like a drowning man to a life raft. "Yes!" he says, too fast. He swallows hard. "I…the bite. Werewolves. Yes. I want it. Um. Sir?" The worst is knowing that Peter won't sense any lie, because down deep, there isn't one. But he won't think about that right now.

Peter takes a step closer, and Stiles has to actively fight not to take a matching step back. He swallows again, his throat clicking. Peter can hear his fear in his heartbeat, probably even smell it on his skin, but that's okay. He's close now, and getting closer. Just a little bit more…

"I'll give this to you, because I said I would, and because I'm generous enough to forgive you your little…indiscretion with the fire bomb," Peter tells him, reaching out, caressing Stiles' arm. The skin goosefleshes, and nausea builds in Stiles' gut. "And there's something about you I enjoy, something that would be lost if I ripped your throat out." The casual way he says it is terrifying in brand new ways. "In return, I ask only that you leave immediately after. I'm in the middle of something. I'd rather not have it interrupted. You understand."

Stiles nods so hard he wonders that his head doesn't just topple right off. Doesn't speak because now his heart _would_ give away the lie, even over the quick-step it's doing right now out of sheer terror.

Peter smiles again, slow, tugging Stiles closer and bringing his arm up to fang-level. He ducks his head, licks the skin of Stiles' wrist all gentle and soft like…like nothing Stiles wants to consider. _Ever_. The nausea is making his stomach pitch and roll like a ship in a storm, but he holds himself together enough to dig into his pocket with his other hand and close it tight around his father's switchblade.

"You know," Stiles says, speaking so fast he's all but tripping over the words. "I've wanted to be a werewolf pretty much since you bit Scott and we figured out what he was. I mean, it's amazing, right? The things he can do now, it's totally out there. He's so _badass_ , except, really, not. Because, well, he's Scott. But I keep wondering, like, what it would be like and how I would do things differently and stuff. But, I mean, you gotta know this about me, I don't get how you missed it."

Above his arm, Peter has paused, rolling his eyes at Stiles' babbling even as he's poised and ready to strike. And in the moment his attention isn't _quite_ on Stiles himself, that's when Stiles moves, bringing his arm around as hard as he can and flipping the blade open in one movement that he miraculously doesn't fumble. The knife sinks deep into Peter's calf, and his howl of rage becomes tinged with pain and anger. His grip on Stiles tightens, and fangs flash, too close, but they don't quite make it.

That deep, the venom works fast. Kanima poison is better than just about anything when you need someone out of the way fast, and Stiles knows from experience that it works on an alpha werewolf just as well as anyone. Peter stumbles forward a step, two, and then he's dropping to his knees, staring at Stiles with such loathing that Stiles is a little surprised he isn't spontaneously combusting and turning into a pile of ash on the floor.

"The thing is?" he says, his voice shaking. He drops the knife and takes a few deep breaths to calm his racing heart. "I want to be a werewolf, but I'll never want it bad enough to stop being human."

Peter's lips twist, but he's on the ground now, paralyzed from head to toe, and if there's something he wants to say, he must decide it's not worth the energy it would take to say it.

Stiles is already running up the stairs and probably wouldn't hear it anyway.

~

"Derek," he mutters, "I'm going to be so pissed at you if you're already dead." He pushes into the last room he hasn't checked yet with bated breath…

…and breathes out a _whooshing_ sigh of relief when he sees the werewolf laid out over a pile of filthy-looking rags in the corner of the room. He scrambles over, dropping to his knees and hastily checking Derek's breathing and pulse – both normal. Derek looks too pale, and his skin is cool where it's usually like a furnace, but he's alive, which is a good enough start for Stiles.

"Okay, sourwolf, time to wake up now, come on." He goes from poking Derek's shoulder to shaking him. "There's a psycho downstairs who wants to eat me, okay? You're the only one who's allowed to make threats like that and get away with it, he actually _means_ it and if it's all the same to you, I don't want to be eaten by your creepy uncle."

There's still no response. Stiles lowers his forehead to Derek's shoulder. He realizes he's shaking. "Derek, come on man, there's too much going on and we can't do this without you. Please wake up."

Every second he sits here, more of Derek's energy is being sapped away by the resurrection magic, and Peter is getting progressively stronger. There has to be a way to break it, every source he'd found had said there was. All he has to do is wake Derek up and the spell breaks. The sources hadn't mentioned that waking him up would be impossible.

Stiles sits up again, his breathing choppy as he clenches his hand into a fist. "Okay. Fine. We tried the easy way, but I can go with this. Hitting worked once before, right? And you didn't rip my face off then, so you probably won't now." He stares down at Derek's face and feels his heartbeat stutter. He can't. He can't hit him like this, no matter how desperate he feels or how loud he can hear the proverbial clock ticking.

Derek looks close to peaceful, right now, and it doesn't matter if it's an illusion. In sleep, real sleep, without any of the tension or the nightmares or the constant vigilance, he could almost be called serene. Stiles refuses to think the word 'angelic', but…well. If the shoe almost-fits…

He didn't realize how much he wanted to see Derek at peace until this very moment, and the only thing that makes the knowledge that he has to break it easier to deal with is knowing that it isn't real, and promising himself that he'll fight to his last breath to make Derek feel this way again when he can actually appreciate it.

Stiles isn't ever gonna be anyone's idea of a knight in shining armor, but if anyone deserves saving, it's Derek, and if Stiles is the only one who sees that, well then so be it.

He's not giving up on him now.

He leans over, pressing his lips to Derek's forehead. He closes his eyes and murmurs, "Please," against Derek's skin. "Come on, Derek, please wake up."

Maybe it's a brief moment of insanity that has him moving down and pressing a second kiss to Derek's lips. Maybe it's just blind desperation. He's blinking back tears, but one slips down his cheek anyway and falls onto Derek's nose. Stiles pulls back and angrily swipes at his eyes, and he's ready to start shouting, and yeah, maybe even start hitting now, except that he suddenly sees Derek's breathing change, his eyes flutter.

"No," Stiles says, gaping. "Come on, no _way_. This is like Disney levels of screwed up. I think I feel dirty." He's not going to admit to how many times he's watched _The Lion King_. He's just not. And besides, he hasn't been able to watch it since his mom died, so it doesn't even count anyway.

Derek's brow furrows, and he slits his eyes open in sleepy a way that Stiles should not find adorable under the current circumstances. Or _any_ circumstances, really. "Stiles?" he mumbles. "Wha –"

And suddenly it hits Stiles. Derek is _awake_. "Oh my God thank you Jesus, _finally!_ " He flops over, half on top of Derek's chest, and takes a perverse sort of pleasure in the " _Oof!_ " that huffs out of the werewolf as Stiles wraps his arms around like an octopus and clings. "Seriously," he says, the words muffled by Derek's shirt. "I thought I was going to have to drag you to the river and dunk you, and I'm sorry dude, but I don't have that kind of back or upper body strength."

He feels it when Derek suddenly tenses. " _Peter_ ," he breathes. "Stiles, we have to –"

"Go. I know." Stiles sits up again, a little reluctantly. Derek is staring at him with the weirdest look in his eyes, but Stiles can ignore that for now. "Got him with kanima poison, but I doubt it'll last long, so we should –"

"He's already gone," Derek cuts in. "I can hear them, Lydia's car, maybe a quarter mile from here. She must have got him out while you were up here. He's been controlling her somehow." He's struggling to sit up now. "But we need to warn the others, my pack, they're not…" He winces suddenly, and a hollow look that Stiles doesn't like at all comes into his eyes. "I can't feel them."

Stiles is still reeling a little from the news about Lydia, but he hastens to reassure Derek about his puppies because he gets how important that is. "They're fine," he promises, inching a hand toward Derek's arm, ready to provide a comfort he's not sure will actually be welcome. The contact would probably help him too, but that's not what matters right now. "Isaac's the one who told me you went missing, but dude, there's so much going on right now you don't even know about, with the kanima and Matt and the Argents and Allison and just, oh my God, you picked the _worst_ time to fall asleep for an entire day."

Derek gives him a dry look. "Wasn't exactly a choice," he mutters.

Stiles flushes, then nods. "Yeah, I get that. Sorry. Um."

Sitting up fully now, Derek rubs his hands over his face, fingers clawed like he wants to tear the entire day away from his brain by sheer force. "Thank you," he manages to say. The words sound like they're being dragged out of him. It almost makes Stiles grin, because there's the sourwolf he knows and loves. "If you hadn't come…" He trails off, looking uncomfortable.

The flush on Stiles' cheeks gets hotter, and he rubs the back of his neck. "Yeah, well, no biggie. You know. Saving the day all the time. Although that was kinda…"

Derek glances at him out of the corner of his eyes. "'Disney levels of screwed up'? Yeah." He shakes his head a little. "You'd be amazed how many fairytales' roots come from a study of shifter magic. I'd forgotten a lot of the stories."

Stories his parents would have told him, Stiles realizes, his heart cracking all over again for the broken guy in front of him. He stands, rubbing his hands on his jeans nervously before holding one out to help Derek to his feet. When the werewolf stumbles, he's right there to support him and help him take a few wobbly steps.

"So," he says as they make they're slow way out of the room. "Uh, was it…was it the kiss, or the crying, or…"

Derek huffs, but Stiles can't tell if it's laughter or annoyance or something else entirely. "It was you caring whether I lived or died, Stiles. I don't know any more than you do besides that."

"Oh." Stiles ponders that, helping Derek down the stairs, which is slow and awkward and he can't even imagine how weak Derek must be feeling right now to even be accepting his help. "So, um. It's not, like, true love or fate or something wacky like that, huh?" That's not a fine tremor of disappointment in his voice and he refuses to let anyone tell him differently.

Sliding a glance at him, Derek's facial muscles relax a fraction, and his lips twitch into something other than his usual grimace. "Maybe we'll talk about it later," he tells Stiles, leaning a little more into him in a way that doesn't entirely feel like weakness.

And that's…that's more than Stiles was hoping for, actually. Like, a lot more. He doesn't even try to smother his own tentative smile. "Okay then. I'm holding you to that, you know." They're at the front door now, navigating their way out of the house and down the steps. "So what are we gonna do? About everything else?"

"I don't know," Derek says. He sounds exhausted all of a sudden. "I'm not an alpha anymore. My wolf took a hit I wasn't expecting." He shakes his head. "The pack is weak, but…we've dealt with worse."

Stiles dumps him into the front seat of the Jeep with an incredulous look. "Oh, really? _Have_ we? Because let me tell you, I don't remember that. I remember a lot of crap, but I don't actually remember anything worse than a psychowolf, a kanima, and a family of hunters all gunning for us at the exact same time."

Derek sighs, leaning back against his seat and closing his eyes.

"Wait a second," Stiles says, figuring it out as he hurries around to the driver's side and climbs in. "Was that you trying to be optimistic? Oh my God, it was, wasn't it? This is a historical moment! Oh man, and I wrecked it, I suck." He's genuinely upset at himself for this.

Derek rolls his eyes. "Shut up, Stiles."

Stiles isn't fooled for a second, he can hear the fond note in Derek's voice. He beams at Derek for a long time, long enough that Derek actually growls at him, baring a tiny pointed fang.

All it does is make Stiles smile even wider.

If he didn't believe in happily ever afters before, he definitely does now, and he'll be damned if he doesn't get the one he's owed. They're gonna win this thing, and then he's demanding Derek take him somewhere where they can drive off into a sunset, that's all there is to it. Clichés are clichés for a reason.

He leans over and plants a big sloppy kiss on Derek's cheek. Derek whacks him on the back of his head.

And for a second, at least, Stiles feels just like Prince Charming


End file.
